


Queen of the Ashes

by SunSalute



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And ruling, Because it's poor Sansa, Mentions of rape/abuse/etc, Politics, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, QUEENINDANORF, Sansa has a long to-do list, Sansa just wants safety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunSalute/pseuds/SunSalute
Summary: The queen of the North has never been more vulnerable, but never has she felt so right in her position. The lone Stark in Winterfell has an endless struggle ahead.Post-show canon, borrowing bits from the books when it suits.





	1. Sansa I

Sansa’s capacity to hold a web of knowledge inside her head had grown considerably, but there was always more to remember, more to be done. This was made all the more difficult when her ladies refused to stop prattling. Erena Glover, with an irritating habit of swallowing loudly in any blessed moment of silence, was marching loudly on about the patterns of snowfall on the roof as she fastened Sansa’s sleeves. Her hands trembled as she secured Sansa’s fastenings.

Sansa wasn’t a monster. She would not think less of Erena Glover for showing nerves when she was a hostage. It had taken much diplomacy to request the Glovers be freed from confinement at Ten Towers without having to speak to Yara Greyjoy, who no doubt wished for a Stark’s head. Sansa stood for the North, and she would see her Northmen returned. She would also demand unwavering loyalty: there were too few of them left to begin naming traitors. The Glover’s price for refusing to aid the Starks was Robett's daughter’s presence at the castle he was so happy to abandon. Sansa had known fear and powerlessness; she would not begrudge Erena her fear. She also knew that she would never become the terror of her own girlhood. Sansa blinked down at the binding of her left sleeve, which was acceptable, and pretended to ignore the sound of Erena dropping a clasp. 

“Is this your first appointment?” Sansa said, cutting across Erena’s recollection of the smallfolk in a village just past Moat Cailin. Erena, if anything, looked relieved. 

“Yes, your Grace.” Erena said. Sansa raised her arms to allow her lady to attach the bodice of the dress.

“You do well.” Sansa said. Erena froze, holding Sansa’s necklace aloft, and bowed her head.

“I’m sorry my lady, your Grace, I mean I did attend Lady Harlaw, but it wasn’t an appointment or anything, it just--” Sansa raised a hand to silence her.

“I intend no contradiction.” She hadn’t pressed for details of Erena’s imprisonment with the Ironborn, but Erena’s lack of decorum was no mystery with them involved. Sansa hadn’t met a Greyjoy other than Yara (unfortunately), and Theon - whom she could not think about, not today - but petty gossip painted an unflattering picture of them. Sansa took her necklace from Erena’s nervous grasp. “I vowed to speak plainly to you.”

“Thank you, your Grace.” Erena said, baffled. Sansa wondered what, exactly, they Greyjoys had told her to expect upon being released to the queen of the North. “Will you be wearing the…” Erena gestured to the heavy oak box containing her diadem. 

“The pin will suffice.” She would be covered in a combination of ash and snow before the day was out, overseeing the reconstruction of Winterfell - queen of the ashes, indeed. Wouldn’t Jon’s dragon queen have been proud.

“Ah, your Grace.” No, she would not be wearing the Stark pin, which rested with Theon. She could add requisitioning a new broach to the bottom of her ever-expanding list of tasks. Sansa wasn’t sure who to ask about that one. 

“Please send for Maester Wolkan.” She said instead, to cover her tumbling thoughts. Erena all but scurried to the door - another bad habit she would have to break. 

“The Maester has been waiting for you.” Erena said. “I told him to wait until your Grace was ready for the day--” Sansa suppressed an irritated sigh and settled for a huff of breath as she drew herself up to full height. 

Sansa left her chambers with Erena at her heels to greet Maester Wolkan, who stood a respectful distance away from her door. The Maester was a man of few words, but he offered good guidance when prompted. He also offered little in the way of good news as of late. 

“Your Grace,” He said, without preamble. “An urgent matter has arisen.” Sansa began to walk, and the Maester matched her pace. They had both mastered the art of discussing royal matters in transit. “The Prince of Dorne, Qoran Martell, sends a messenger for your attention.” That was a surprise enough to wake her. She nodded at Erena without turning.

“See that there will be suitable food and shelter. With all hope, he shall be gone again soon.” 

Sansa knew this had to happen eventually: the other realms had granted Winterfell a token grieving period while they began rebuilding, but that had clearly come to an end. She had been expecting a raven from King’s Landing or Riverrun, and perhaps an angry missive from the Greyjoys (and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to reinforce the North against the Ironborn raiders again, just in case), but as far as she knew she had no business with Sunspear. 

“Did he tell you what he wants?” She said. Maester Wolkan hesitated. In this time, they passed the remains of the room she broke her fast in with her family and the septa as a girl. All dead now, or gone. That room was very low on the priority list to rebuild. If the wind blew the wrong way, it still smelled of charcoal. 

“No, your Grace.” She consciously slowed her stride to allow him time to speak before they reached the hall. “But he brings gifts. Citrus fruits, largely. And spices.” She should have worn the crown after all. She bade one of the guards at the door run back and fetch it. Let the Dornish messenger be kept waiting, if he wishes to arrive unannounced at sunrise. Sansa allowed herself a final moment of frankness before the hall while she waited.

“Pray for a simple trade negotiation.” She said. Beside her, Maester Wolkan snorted into the neck of his robe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please do let me know if there are any errors/anything you'd like to see/talk about how Sansa is a good noodle that's doing her best for her homeland even if she's not always very good at it.


	2. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is pulled from her duties by a envoy from the south.

When Sansa entered the great hall, a servant with a small stool was still lighting the sconces. A pair of guards in dark, heavy leather stood at the far door to announce the visitor at her leisure. She drew Maester Wolkan to the fireplace, chilled by the Northern crown that sat heavy and frigid on her brow, and was grateful for the pelt around her shoulders. A terrible draft blew across the cracked stone floor where the windows had yet to be repaired. Windows were not high in priority when half of Winterfell still went without walls. 

Behind, she heard the servant sweep at the mingled snow and ash that had encroached in the night, but the hall was lit and she was ready and she did not wish to be rude to an envoy that had travelled so far. Sansa settled on her throne and, framed by wolves carved from wood, told the guards to let the messenger in. 

(She also wanted this over with as soon as possible. The queen in the North was in high demand and her days were already long and tiring.)

Her experience of Dornishmen was limited. She remembered sitting next to the late Oberyn Martell at Margaery and Joffrey’s disastrous wedding, and trying not to let her sleeves brush against his.

(Margaery - she had been good to her. Now there were no Tyrells left.)

The messenger from Dorne was a golden spark against the grey of Winterfell, dressed as finely as Oberyn Martell had been, with a sunburst-patterned doublet and a heavy, padded cloak. He was snow-coated and wind-swept, and looked thoroughly miserable. Sansa’s guards flanked him as he approached.

“Your Grace.” He said, and swept into a bow. Sansa dipped her head as he rose. They both began to speak at once.

“I have heard tales of your otherwordly beauty, yet--”

“You have travelled far, and so--”

A very long silence followed. Sansa met his gaze. She had the blood of the North in her veins, and she would do Ned Stark proud. The messenger inclined his head. “My apologies.”

“The North welcomes you. You and your horses may rest at Winterfell until you are fit to travel again.”

“I thank you for this kindness. To show his gratitude and good intentions, the Prince of Dorne Qoren Martell has sent gifts. I was not permitted to bring them in,” He looked sourly at the guard, “But I have been assured that once they are certain I have not hidden blades in the oranges and poison in the spices, they will be released.” Qoren Martell. She hadn’t caught his name at the council in King’s Landing, and nobody seemed to be able to tell her anything about him. Arya had gone through his pack, of course, but found nothing unusual. She did recall the young prince eyeing her sister suspiciously upon their departure, however. Arya maintained innocence and whatever had passed between them remained a mystery. 

“There are those who would harm us,” Sansa said. “But we accept your gift. We are eager to hear of the new Prince of Dorne.” Having looked no further than the North in the wake of the battle for Winterfell, this was a lie. She had negotiated a meeting with Bran - or, more accurately, his council - that would take place after the majority of restorations were complete. She had assumed that would be the extent of her Southerly communications.

“The Prince fares well, and offers this alongside his gifts: he looks most forward to one day making your acquaintance.” Sansa, who had no intention of involving herself in Westerosi politics again, said:

“You may tell that Prince that I am flattered, but I’m in no position to be hosting an entourage.” Or frivolously sailing around the country, she didn’t add. The envoy smiled.

“My lord also offers that he is content to travel very lightly.” He said. “Discreetly.” Sansa looked to her side and met Maester Wolkan’s gaze, which gave nothing away. He said nothing in front of this stranger.

“Then you may thank Qoran Martell for his generosity, and remind him that meeting alone with a foreign lord from a country we have seceded from is at best scandalous. At worst, it could be considered treason.” The word ‘treason’ rang in the air, echoing off the stone walls. 

“I shall report your words truly, my lady.” He said. Sansa itched to correct him on her hard-won title of queen, but let it go. She rose from her throne.

“The guards will escort you to your room, where you may break your fast and rest until your horses are ready to return to Dorne.” She said with finality, nodded to the guards, and left the hall with the Maester at her side. She wanted his thoughts on what had just transpired, and what she had been offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos! Always happy to have input, or a virtual tea break with y'all.


	3. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa mulls over her unexpected arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one today. It's more of an addendum to the last chapter, or the first half of the next, but the next few parts are more involved and will take longer to write so I'd rather get something out to keep up with my posting schedule. Thanks as always for all your support. It means the world!

The sun rose slowly, and then all at once over a Winterfell that already bustled with activity. Sansa couldn’t tell if the day had been dawning earlier or later than before; whether the long winter that had been promised had fled, or if the Night King had set in motion something unstoppable. Whatever the seasons had in store, the air was cold. And, as was common lately, a little ashy. Dragons had helped in the battle (or so she had been told), but while they were gone, their legacy remained. Sansa tried to take a deep breath but was met with the pungent aroma of people in close quarters.

The castle was full to bursting with smallfolk without homes to return to, lords keeping their people with the food rations, and what remaining manpower the North had left that could begin to rebuild. Those that couldn’t physically fit within the walls had set up in huts and semi-permanent tents where they could. The North had concentrated their supplies in Winterfell in preparation for the War for the Dawn and with such an uncertain future and a need for men able to work, there was no point in sending them away. 

“What do we know of Qoran Martell?” Sansa said to Maester Wolkan, watching the bustle of the castle from the (mostly intact) walkway above. Let them see their queen. She was a Stark and had earned their loyalty, but she needed a first-hand account of the progress on the castle, and the smallfolk and lords alike needed to see the crown and therefore independence she had won them. It is okay, the crown on her brow said. You need not take orders from those that would not understand us.

“Very little, I’m afraid.” He said. “Dorne have been keeping to themselves as of late.” She couldn’t even ask him to dig deeper into this: by rights, this was a job for a Master of Whispers, not a Maester, and without a council her poor Maester had been the sole receptacle of her confidence. Sansa was reluctant to hand over duties so close to the birth of a new kingdom. This problem was on her list. 

“Well, that sounded like a proposal of marriage to me.” Sansa said. “No doubt the entire Six Kingdoms have heard of the Northern damsel awaiting her Lord Protector.” The Maester snorted: he had witnessed firsthand Sansa grilling the smithies about the armour.

(He had also witnessed her husband refusing medicinal treatment for her bloodied and bruised body. She had survived that.) 

A wife rich in land and titles was not the only possible motivation. What is the worst this person could be planning? “Or perhaps it is some trap to strip any good relations I have with Bran and his council. HIdden meetings with a secretive lord? I’d hardly trust my lords if I discovered they were having moonlit trysts with Highgarden or Storm’s End.” Maester Wolkan ‘hmm’d but said nothing. He would likely think on this and return to her with a comprehensive list of fact-checked possibilities. “We shall have to see what becomes of it after discussing things with the Small Council in King’s Landing.”

“That meeting cannot come soon enough.” Said the Maester. Sansa agreed. All she could do on that front was await a raven with an invitation once the Red Keep had been suitably repaired. She hoped it would be vastly redecorated. That castle carried nothing but ghosts reminding her of how it felt to sit prettily and wait. At least she had direction, here. 

In the relative silence, over the winter wind and the general grumble of an occupied castle, Sansa felt at home. The Northmen had an endless uphill struggle ahead, but the kind they could plan for. The Six Kingdoms were busy rebuilding themselves, and in a few moons the Maesters would tell them whether the winter was over or just beginning. In the meantime, to feed a kingdom, she would check in with the progress with the glass gardens--

“Your Grace.” The Maester cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is time to break your fast?”

“Oh.” Said Sansa, who had quite forgotten amidst her unexpected arrival and her plans for the day. “Yes. Lead the way.”


End file.
